(Click here to go to our previous chapter; if you must you may click here to return to the first chapter of Uncle Buddy’s House©. Rated R for sex, drugs, and poor plotting.)
Buddy had to go meet Marjorie Goldsmith and a writer from Entertainment Weekly at Musso’s. The writer was this little chick who was even shorter than Marjorie and had a voice like a fourteen-year-old’s, but she was nice, and weirdly respectful. Buddy felt a little sorry for her that he wasn’t Jude Law or Colin Farrell, but he got through the interview, playing his part, the hardscrabble no-nonsense independent, and as Marjorie saw the girl out he sat in the booth and thought about some of the idiotic things he had just said.
Marjorie came back and slid in across from him.
“You were marvelous, Buddy.”
“Yeah, right, hey, you sure she isn’t writing this for her high school newspaper?”
“She, dear boy, has a Master’s in journalism from Columbia.”
“Well, it’s nice to know she’s not wasting her degree.”
“Now, would you like to go to the Chateau Marmont for some tea?”
“At the Marmont?”
“I’ve got a suite booked for the day.”
“What are you, crazy?”
“Sony’s paying for it. I had the Coen brothers in there all morning meeting with the Japanese press.”
“Let’s go,” said Buddy.
(They drove separately, and on the way over Buddy realized, annoyingly, that he should get some condoms, and he had to detour down to the CVS near the Ramada Hotel on Santa Monica, and stand in line, feeling very middle-aged, and he bought a tin of Altoids peppermints, just to be buying something else besides his packet of extra-thins, not that the cashier gave a flying fuck.)
He had to admit, it was even more fun than the first time, and afterwards the expense-account-mad witch even ordered up a good bottle of Chardonnay. (Buddy had insisted on no champagne.) So they lay in bed and sipped the wine, and she even pulled a joint out of her purse.
“How is your mystery woman, Buddy?”
“Still a mystery. How is your husband?”
She gave him a little slap, and then she climbed up on top of him, lying on him and looking into his eyes.
“I must know who this minx is,” she said, expertly toking and then putting the joint between his lips. Buddy duly toked and she took the joint out of his lips.
“What exactly is a minx anyway?” he asked.
“I have no idea. A small furry animal? But who is she?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know.”
“You mean it’s common knowledge?”
She seemed professionally offended at this possibility.
“So -- that means -- Debbie would know!”
“If anyone does she would know. Wait. It’s not Debbie, is it?”
Buddy tried to push her off but she held on to his shoulders.
“No,” she said, staring into his eyes from varying angles. “Not Debbie. But I’ll find out.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“So why not tell me now.”
“’Cause there’s nothing to tell.”
“Then tell me if there’s nothing to tell.”
So, finally, after more wine, and the joint, he told her, the whole weird story.
“That is a fantastic tale,” she said. “You naughty, naughty man.”
“Yeah, well, the only thing I don’t get is that weirdness with the Mariner today. What’s he up to?”
“That’s obvious. He thinks that you got Cordelia the lead in this Chris Lambert movie. So, he thinks by being nice to you and giving you the okay to ravish his only daughter that you will be nice to him and continue to give him parts in your movies. Or, put another way, if you agree to get him work he will let you fuck his daughter.”
“Oh,” said Buddy.
“Yes,” she said, caressing him down below, to some effect. “Oh.”
“But no way I will ever cast him again. He’s so deluded.”
“Well, then you can forget about fucking his daughter.”
“I already had forgot about it,” he lied.
“Shut up now,” she said, and she climbed up on top of him. “Let’s get Sony’s money’s worth out of this bed.”
Not much post-coital badinage after this one.
(He hadn’t come, which he didn’t mind, he was fifty-two years old after all and happy just to get it up at all, let alone twice in one afternoon. Marjorie however had come, or, if she hadn’t come she had given a pretty damn good impersonation of a woman coming.)
Buddy was still lying there breathing heavily as she briskly got herself dressed.
“Bugger,” she said.
“Bugger bugger bugger.”
Now what the fuck had he done? Was she going to start getting psycho on his ass already?
“What’s the matter, Marjorie?”
“Bugger! Where is my other shoe?”
Under the bed, generally, in Buddy’s experience, but he didn’t say this, and she was poking around under it pretty soon anyway, and sure enough she came up with it.
“Ah! Got you!”
And then there was another flurry of buggers.
“Marjorie, was there something I said?”
“What? Oh, no, darling! You’ve been marvelous. It’s just Terence and his soccer.”
“My son, you silly. At his soccer -- no -- baseball practice.”
“Must run, must pick him up. Take a nap, darling, then order up some coffee or tea if you like, it’s all on Sony, little Jap fools, let’s spend their money.”
Soon she had blown out the door, and, fuck it, Buddy decided to have a little doze on Sony.
(Continued here, after Buddy wakes up.)
(Feel free to go to the right-hand column of this page to find an absolutely up-to-date listing of links to all other published chapters of Uncle Buddy’s House™. Portions of our story filmed on location at the fabulous Chateau Marmont in West Hollywood, where for several generations the royalty of the entertainment industry have stopped to enjoy comfortable lodgings, fine European cuisine, high-powered wheeling-and-dealing and discreet recreation.)